The Ghosts & Jamal

by Bridget Blankley

  Jamal sat on the ground next to the fence – not leaning on the fence in case the snarling dogs could bite through the wire, but close enough so he wasn’t near the trucks that came and went through the big iron gates.

  Jamal was tired and hungry and no nearer finding the ghosts.

  ‘Get out of here. You, over there. Clear off! Clear off or I’ll let the dogs out.’ The watchman had come out of his hut and was shouting at Jamal.

  ‘I just need to sit here for awhile. I won’t get in the way.’

  But the watchman didn’t care how tired Jamal was.

  ‘I said get out of here. This is no place for street boys and thieves. Get out.’

  Jamal tried to stand up, but his legs seemed to ignore him.

  ‘Please, sir, let me sit here just for a minute. I won’t be long and then I’ll go and find the ghosts.’

  Jamal slumped forward, resting his head on his knees and pulling his bag close. He hadn’t had breakfast, or even anything to drink, and he just couldn’t walk any more. So he decided that he would stay where he was even if the dogs were let out. He had failed. He had lost his medicine, he had lost his clothes, he didn’t know where he was and he still hadn’t found the ghosts. Jamal couldn’t imagine the day getting any worse. It didn’t. It got better – just a bit. As his hand rubbed against his bag he heard a very quiet rustling sound. He fished into the pocket and found the single squashed energy biscuit, still wrapped in its shiny paper. Had the street boys missed it? Or had they left it for him? He didn’t know. He didn’t really care. He opened the packet and took a big bite. It was very dry – quite hard to swallow without a drink. But Jamal didn’t have a drink, and he didn’t think the watchman was likely to give him any water. So he chewed the biscuit and tried to swallow the sweet, peanutty crumbs.

  He had eaten half the biscuit when he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head.

  ‘Get out of here, I said.’

  The watchman was still angry. He hadn’t let the dogs out but he was standing at the gate, holding a bucket and shouting at Jamal again.

  Before he’d finished his biscuit something hit his back. Another stone, and then another. Jamal felt blood trickle down the back of his neck. He swallowed the rest of the biscuit quickly, just in case the watchman threw anything else at him.

  ‘Hey. I’m going. It’s just, I don’t know where to go now.’

  ‘Go back to where you came from. I told you – no thieves here.’

  Jamal couldn’t understand why the watchman was so angry. But struggled up as a stone hit him. Another stone hit his head and he started to blink as blood ran into his eye.

  ‘I said I was going. Leave me alone.’

  The stones stopped when a lorry arrived at the gate and the watchman went over to speak to the driver.

  ‘Can’t get rid of those kids; they keep trying to sneak onto the site. Jump on the back of trucks if they get a chance. Takes me all my time to keep them away.’

  The watchman and the driver both looked at Jamal as he walked off.

  ‘They need sweeping off the streets,’ said the watchman. ‘Dumping in the lagoon with the other rubbish.’

  Jamal didn’t hear what the driver said because he wanted to get away from the watchman and the bucket of stones. He was in a hurry and didn’t look where he was going. He bumped into a boy in torn shorts and a dirty football shirt and they both ended up on the ground. The boy looked ready to start a fight, but when he saw Jamal’s face he smiled.

  ‘It’s the boy with the food. You got any more? Your clothes were good. I didn’t get any though. Too small for me, but they fitted the others.’

  Jamal still hadn’t said anything. He could smell nutmeg and his head was spinning. He knew that the smell was important but he couldn’t remember why. The boy was still saying something but he was unable to work out what. The words didn’t seem to make sense any more. They twisted round and got mixed up together, like milk and water poured on the floor.

  When Jamal woke up, the boys were all standing round him. They weren’t looking at Jamal but at a crowd of adults who were shouting.

  ‘Witch, witch, witch.’

  Jamal could hear the words but he didn’t understand why they were calling for a witch.

  ‘Get rid of him.’

  Jamal wondered who they wanted to get rid of. Then he heard the watchman’s voice.

  ‘I’ll get the dogs; they’ll chase him off.’

  ‘We don’t need his curses.’

  ‘Get rid of him.’

  Jamal tried to get up to have a better look. He wanted to know what was going on.

  ‘Get down!’

  Stones and sticks and empty bottles were thrown at the boys. Some hit Jamal, others hit the boys protecting him. But the boys didn’t move. They stood there, like a wall between Jamal and the adults.

  ‘Witch, witch, witch.’

  Jamal had never heard so many adults sounding so angry at the same time. He was about to ask what was happening when he heard a wailing noise.

  ‘Police!’ someone shouted

  Everyone started running. A hand reached down and pulled Jamal to his feet. He was pulled and pushed and hustled away from the factory, down a side road. All the boys hid behind a pile of rotting fruit.

  Jamal glanced over his shoulder and couldn’t believe how empty the street was. The watchman was back in his hut and the other adults had all gone.

  ‘You must have really hit your head hard,’ the boy in the football shirt said.

  ‘I’ve never seen anyone go down like that. All that shaking. Freaked me out.’

  ‘Freaked everyone out,’ another boy said. ‘You better get out of here. They’ll be back when the police have gone, especially the watchman. Got a thing about witches he has. Thinks a witch cursed his wife.’

  The boys laughed.

  ‘She just left him for someone who smells better. But he prefers to blame a witch – not the fact he doesn’t wash.’

  Jamal was worried. He was beginning to feel better but he was also beginning to realise that everyone thought he was the witch.

  ‘I don’t know where to go,’ said Jamal. ‘I was looking for ghosts but only found this factory.’

  The boys looked at one another and pulled faces. The sort of faces you pull when someone is talking nonsense.

  ‘You still need to go. You could try the dump. Out by Makoko. If ghosts are going to be anywhere that’s the place they’d be.’

  The boys nodded, keen to get Jamal to leave before they were all branded as witches.

  ‘You’ll be OK there. Follow this road and don’t turn off. Even if it looks like other roads are better. Just stay on this road and you’ll get to the dump.’

  ‘Yeah, and follow your nose. Smells like the dead out there. Bound to be crawling with ghosts.’

  There was a general murmur of agreement from the boys. There was quite a lot of giggling too. They were city boys; they didn’t believe in ghosts or witches. Well, maybe they believed in witches a bit, but they weren’t going to admit that to each other. Or to anyone else – especially not to a country boy who was clearly fresh off the bus.

  Jamal thanked them, and, once they were sure that the adults had gone, the boys slipped out from their hiding place.

  ‘Here,’ said one of the boys, passing Jamal a carton of orange juice. ‘Not many places to find an unattended drink out there.’

  ‘And you’ll pass some mango trees about a mile out. Stop and pick some. Don’t eat what you find on the dump.’

  The boys ran off before Jamal had time to say thank you, laughing about something. Jamal couldn’t hear what they said, but he guessed they were probably laughing at him.

  Follow this road, they had said, but which way? Why did people forget to tell you that? Afiba’s uncle, for example, and now the street boys too.

  Oh well, Jamal thought, the boys went that way so I’ll go this way. If it’s wrong I can always come back; I’ll only have to follow the smoke.

&
nbsp; He walked along the road and when he was sure that no one was following him he opened the carton of juice. He was pleased that he’d found the biscuit, but he was really happy that he had something to drink.

  Learning About Life

  Follow the road, the boys had said. That had been easy to start with. But Jamal wasn’t convinced that he’d been given the right information. It was a small road, full of rubbish and potholes, and it looked as if it would end in a brick wall. He didn’t believe it was really going to take him to the ghosts – more likely it would lead to another kicking. I should have stayed at home, he thought. Nothing good has happened since I left.

  Jamal thought about what had happened: he’d been hungry and thirsty, he’d been kicked and punched and robbed, and he’d been lost. Over and over again he’d been lost. He thought about the hospital. That had been the best place to be. If he could have stayed there, maybe he could have forgotten about the ghosts. Maybe he should have gone to the orphanage. Maybe it wouldn’t have been as bad as Afiba said. After all, Afiba had never actually been to the orphanage; he had just told Jamal tales about it and Jamal knew how tales could grow. First someone heard a noise in the night. Then the noise was a bird landing on the roof, then it was a giant bird, and then a magical bird. Then it wasn’t a bird at all, but a spirit or a witch or a demon. The next thing you knew the whole village left their houses and moved to the other side of the hill.

  Yes, Jamal thought, stories always grow. Maybe he should have gone to the orphanage. But it was too late for maybes. He’d missed his chance and now the best thing he could do was find the ghosts – perhaps things would get back to normal when he did.

  By the time Jamal had finished thinking about what he ought to have done he had reached the end of the road. The boys had said follow the road all the way to the dump but there was no dump here, just another road full of traffic and noise and with shops on either side. The shops spilled out onto the road with racks of clothes and piles of buckets and mobile phones in padlocked cases. There were teashops with blue plastic chairs, cages of chickens and piles of vegetables. Everywhere that Jamal had been since he left the hospital people had set up stalls. It was as if the city was one big market. He tried to imagine how many people must live in the city if they needed so many shops and how big the farms must be to produce all the vegetables.

  He could go right or left. He looked right and saw a policeman in white gloves walking to where two yellow buses had crashed into each other – he remembered the boys running away from the police cars and decided to go left.

  But he couldn’t walk straight down the road – it was too crowded. The clothes people were wearing fascinated him. At home, his aunties covered their heads and shoulders with dark scarves and his uncles wore long shirts and loose pants. In the city it was as if people wore whatever they could find, as long as it was bright. There were women with scarves, but the scarves were red or pink or sky blue and purple. But some women didn’t wear scarves: they showed their necks and wrapped their hair in bright cloths that matched their dresses. Others didn’t cover their hair at all. Even their dresses were different. Some women wore skirts so short that Jamal thought they must belong to small children, while some wore long dresses that swept the ground as they walked. There were men in shorts, men in trousers and plain shirts, and men in T-shirts or no shirts at all. And no one seemed to mind. No one tapped them on the shoulder and said you shouldn’t wear this or that. No one was made to wear a hat, or not wear a hat, or shave their head or even grow a beard. Jamal spent more time looking than walking and more time bumping into people than avoiding them.

  I haven’t got time for this, Jamal thought. But then, what if he found the ghosts and didn’t come back this way? He didn’t want to miss anything. Looking up, he saw there were people living high above the shops. There were three – sometimes four – storeys above the ground level. Jamal could see people hanging out of the windows, shouting down to the street, telling children to come inside or calling to the street traders below. Jamal had never seen anything like this place. He had never heard anything like it either – the car horns and the shouting and the music in the cafes and the phone shops.

  He was looking up, trying to work out how people got their washing onto the lines that stretched across the road when he stumbled and fell into the traffic. Horns blared and people shouted and a hand grabbed Jamal by the arm, pulling him back away from the cars. At the same time three small children pushed against a stall, sending spicy snacks and hot oil all over the pavement. They grabbed what they could in an open basket and ran out into the traffic.

  ‘Thief, thief!’ shouted the stallholder. He ran after them, calling all the time and waving his cooking knife over his head.

  The person who was holding Jamal’s arm let go, and Jamal, still off-balance, fell to the ground – pulling his hand quickly away from the oil.

  Other people had taken up the stallholder’s cry: ‘Thief, thief! Stop thief!’

  The children were quick, but the crowd was quicker and the children did not get very far before they were surrounded by angry stallholders. Everyone’s attention was on the thieves – even some of the drivers had got out of their buses and cars to join in, making sure that the children could not get away. Well, not everyone’s attention was on the thieves: other children had spilled out of the doorways and were scooping up the snacks on the ground. Jamal looked around. He was very hungry but he didn’t want to be chased by anyone with a cooking knife.

  ‘Go on,’ said a small girl in an embroidered dress. ‘It’s OK. They were stupid, made a big show. They should have been quicker, a little here and a little there. No one notices small hands.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we help them?’ Jamal asked.

  ‘No, we just help ourselves. Here, take some. Quick! Before everyone comes back.’ She handed Jamal three small snacks. He popped them in his mouth, not bothering to brush off the dirt. When the snacks were gone the children disappeared back into the doorways.

  Jamal stood up, taking care not to slip on the oil. There were six more puff-puff balls where he had been sitting. He picked them up, putting them in his pockets for later, then he wiped his hands on his shorts. They were his new shorts, the ones which had been bought at the market when his hair had been cut. Only they didn’t look new any more. He was beginning to look like the other street children, and he had been in the city for only two days. He wondered how the children ever kept clean. But there was no one to ask. His questions would have to wait. He could see the stallholders returning. Time to go. He squirmed his way along the pavement, this time looking at his feet, not at the buildings.

  The Sound of Music

  Jamal walked until the sun went down. The sun had set but it wasn’t dark: lights came on in shops, windows in the houses glowed yellow, and the stalls were strung with coloured lights. And the music! Jamal had never heard so much music. Every shop played music and men were standing on street corners, listening to music, dancing to it. It was as if there were two sets of people in the city – the day people and the night people, like the animals in the bush. Every space was filled twice.

  Jamal was definitely a day person, though he wished he wasn’t. He wanted to belong to this exciting second city. But his legs ached and his new shoes pinched his toes and, once again, he needed to find somewhere to sleep. He thought about leaving the main road and trying to find somewhere quiet in one of the alleys that snaked between the houses. But there was always someone there before him. Maybe it would have been safe to take an afternoon nap there, but not at night. Jamal almost wished that he was a witch, so he could frighten people away from the best places. But he wasn’t, so he just kept walking, hoping that he’d find somewhere.

  It was less noisy than it had been: the shops had begun to pull down their shutters and there were fewer stalls by the side of the road. Jamal thought at first that it was because it was so late that even the dancers had gone home, but when he turned around he could see that it looke
d as if there was a street party behind him. He was walking away from the main part of the city. Now he really did have to find somewhere to sleep. There were fewer lights the further he walked and he was afraid of falling – there were piles of rags and heaps of boxes all over the path ahead. He moved closer to one of the closed shops and tried to clear some space between the rubbish.

  ‘Oi, get your own space.’ The pile of rubbish was alive, and not very friendly.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jamal said. ‘I didn’t realise.’

  ‘Well, you do now. Go somewhere else.’

  Jamal started paying more attention to the heaps of rubbish. They were all children, lying nose to tail next to the shops. Eventually Jamal saw a small gap between some squashed fruit boxes and a pile of grey rags. He poked the space carefully with his shoe, trying to decide if it was really empty.

  ‘It’s all right,’ a girl’s voice said. ‘I was keeping that space for my friend.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll find somewhere else.’

  ‘I said it’s all right. It’s late – she’d be here by now if she was coming. You sleep there.’

  Jamal thanked her and put his bag on the floor, his head towards the road. He would have preferred to have his head safely by the wall but the girl was lying that way. He wrapped the bag around him, pleased he could finally stop walking.

  ‘She didn’t come last night either, so it can be your space now.’

  Jamal went to sleep wondering about the girl whose space he had taken and hoping that she was OK.

  When he woke up everyone else was already moving, folding up their bedding and putting it together in piles then tying the piles with string.

  ‘Come on! We’ve got to move. We’ve got to be out of here before the shops open.’

  Jamal picked up his bag and looked at his feet. They were red and sore where his shoes had rubbed the skin. He decided to leave his shoes in the bag, with his book and the sheet that he’d taken from the laundry cart.

  ‘Hurry up. If we’re quick we can get down to where the nuns give out breakfast, but we’ll have to run.’